Over his grave
by H Stevenson
Summary: This is a short story charting the investigation into the disaperance of an Oxfrod professor.


Over his grave

Detective Chief Inspector Morse was not having a good day. Firstly, he had failed to locate his copy of Thomas Hardy's 'A Darkling Thrush', which although a slightly simpering work he considered to contain all the merits of a good classical poem. Secondly, the garage still hadn't finished working on his car. The final straw had come as his Sergeant strolled merrily into his office, file in one hand, and coffee in the other. There was nothing to darken Morse's mood more than the prospect of a chirpy Sergeant Lewis when all around the world seemed a grey and miserable place.

'Morning Sir. I've got the report on the Denby case if you're interested?'

'That professor who went missing in Woodstock the other week?'

'Yes Sir. This is the report on his car. A young couple who were hitchhiking found it in smashed to pieces in a layby the other day. They called it in because the car was so badly damaged, but there's no sign of a body.'

Morse sat deep in thought for a few moments. 'How do we know it's his car Lewis?

'Sir?'

'Morse scowled. 'Don't just sit there burbling "Sir" at me like an idiot Lewis! If the car was in pieces as you say, how the hell did we identify it as Professor Denby's car?'

'One of the Detective Constable's found a couple of books that'd been borrowed from the Bodleian, under Denby's name. We checked with the garage. It's defiantly his car Sir.'

Lewis placed the slim manila file on the desk in front of his boss, who opened the first page with a sniff of contempt.

'That how you spell "suspiciously" Lewis?' He asked darkly. His Sergeant didn't even bother to reply. He sat down at his own desk, thinking no more of it, when a sudden exclamation exuded from the body that was normally inextinguishable from the furniture until twelve o'clock, when the pubs opened.

'What the hell does this mean Lewis?'

'Sir?'

'According to this report they found a Dorothy L. Sayers novel and a copy of Dante's _Inferno _in the glove compartment.'

Lewis couldn't see anything wrong in that. Those books had been instrumental in the identifying of the vehicle, a fact which Sergeant Lewis was secretly rather proud of. Then his boss did always have strange ideas about intellectual things.

'They did Sir.'

Morse glared up at his Sergeant.

'Well, can't you see it man? Can't you see what's wrong with it?'

Lewis shook his head.

'It's wrong! No academic looks for clues to the _Inferno _in Sayers' books, she kept all of that separate. No her novels contained all of the intellectual merit of a cigarette card. It's a faked scene. Someone planted those books there. Someone who's not very good.'

'We could put out an advert Sir. "Wanted, man who is not very good at nicking cars and/ or bumping off old professors"'.

Morse ignored his Sergeant and stared back at the report for a moment, then snapped it shut briskly.

'I'm going to his department' he announced. Lewis groaned.

'Do we have to go again Sir? Only I could do with going through some of these…'

'I'm going to his office. You are driving me. When you've dropped me off you can pay that odious little housekeeper of his a visit and ask her if he went stark raving mad and decided to write a thesis on how Lord Peter Wimsey solved the riddle of Dante's _Inferno _while also leering over corpses in baths. I ask you.'

Lewis had no idea what was going on. He knew it was no use arguing. He stood to leave when the phone rang. The Inspector stood in the doorway watching him as he took the call. The news he heard puzzled Sergeant Lewis, who thanked the caller politely before replacing the receiver.

'Well Lewis?'

'That was Professor Denby's doctor, Sir. He's just back from his holiday.'

'And?' Morse was not in the mood for his Sergeant's plodding.

'Denby has cancer, Sir. Not long left to live.'

Morse stood deep in thought for a minute. An idea was beginning to form, but he had so little evidence it was almost overwhelming.

'Change of plan Lewis. The Bodleian, where those books were taken out. See if anyone remembers Denby taking them out.'

'He must have done, they were on his card, Sir/'

'Anyone can steal a card. No find out if anyone remembers him. You can do it after you've dropped me off at the college.'

'I can't see why you don't just use a patrol car Sir.'

'You know full well I won't be driven around in one of those death traps by some spotty uniform who only just passed their test. I don't even like driving around with you at the wheel. I hope they fix my car soon.'

Sergeant Lewis hoped so too. Ten minutes later he pulled the car up beside the kerb just outside Magdalene College. He was about to ask the Inspector if there was anything else he should ask the housekeeper, when a young blonde woman strolled idly past, the hemline of her skirt fluttering in time to the stride of her long, bare legs. Lewis knew he didn't stand a chance at keeping his bosses attentions.

Indeed, his bosses attentions were rather distracted as his Sergeant yelled his cheerful 'Cheerio' and joined the onslaught of traffic into central Oxford, but it was not by the svelte blonde that they were thus occupied. In normal circumstances she would have played first on the aging detective's mind, but today some words Thomas Hardy had written fluttered across his consciousness.

'The smile on your face was the deadest thing

Alive enough with strength to die'.

That certainly was the case for the grimace on the face of the Dean of the college as he sauntered with a definite attempt at jollity towards the Inspector who had once too often trespassed on his precious college's pristine lawns.

'I have to say Inspector, I am growing rather sick of these visits. What can I help you with now?'

The Dean spoke each word almost so deliberately it was almost farcical. Again he touched the little cross around his neck, fumbling for it like a desperate man, as he had on each of the Inspector's previous visits. Morse wondered if everyone provoked this reaction or if the mere sight of him was enough to make a man call on the presence of his God. Inspector Morse met his eyes: the Dean did not hold his gaze. He started with determination at the floor as the Inspector spoke, in a voice which boomed out across the college grounds.

'I am the investigating officer in a suspicious disappearance and I will not tolerate insubordination by some second rate academic on the grounds that he doesn't want his day disturbed! Am I making myself perfectly clear, Sir?'

The Dean of the college shuffled uncomfortably, then nodded silently. Morse began gazing up at the college buildings as an idea began to formulate in his mind. This college was, in Morse's opinion, one of the finest architecturally, yet as he stood searching for a manner in which to ask his question he found they gave him little solidarity. He wished Lewis were here. He was good at this sort of thing, with his effortless helpfulness.

'How did he kill himself?'

He left the question to hang in the air between them. Onlookers had gathered during his outburst but most had moved on by now. There was no one specifically watching the pair, but any forlorn students meditating on the temperance of life and the rapidity of deadlines, or dons watching the skyline for a fleeting glimpse at peace might have had their eyes drawn to the unusual pair positioned together by the main lawn. One was a slightly overweight, middle aged man with thinning grey hair and a tired expression; his companion was far more portly, his belly protruding out across the college with an air of authority, his head entirely hairless and his suit straining at the buttons like an animal trying to get loose. Slowly the Dean of Magdalene College turned to face Detective Chief Inspector Morse.

'I think we should do this in my study, don't you Inspector?'

Morse retold the entire story to an astonished Sergeant Lewis that evening as the two of them sat in the snug of the Queen's head pub. The first the Sergeant knew of anything was when his Inspector had telephoned the car phone, asking him to have a squad car and several Constables bought round to the college. Lewis knew better than to question. It had taken less than ten minutes digging at the spot dictated by the subdued Dean to establish the whereabouts of the body, noose still hanging around its neck, buried in a shallow grave in a flowerbed between the porter's lodge and the main hall.

'I still don't understand, Sir. How did you know it was suicide?'

Morse inhaled the last of his beer. 'He was ashamed of something, the Dean. He clearly wanted the college to succeed, so he sacrificed everything to cover up the suicide,'

'Because of the note?'

'We'll never know what it said, but I suspect it blamed the tumour on the college. Overworking him, not giving him enough respect. I've never once read an original suicide note, Lewis.'

'Could it not have been murder, Sir? Dressed up as suicide, perhaps?'

The Inspector shook his head and stared miserably into the bottom of his empty glass. 'No Lewis, this was suicide. I realised that when I started staring up at the masonry.'

His Sergeant looked puzzled. Morse groaned. 'Catholic, Lewis. The man was a bloody catholic.'

'Denby?'

'The Dean of the college you bloody fool! I was gazing up at the church, thinking how much better maintained it looks than the other college churches when I realised. He was a catholic. They think suicide is a mortal sin. He couldn't stand the idea that Denby had killed himself, never mind the fact that he blamed the college for it. So he buried the body, then he left the car somewhere he knew it would either be stolen or broken up or burned. He took the books out of the library, but I don't think he meant to leave them in the car. He wanted to make it look like Denby was still alive, that he'd fled. Remember he didn't report it, that bloody housekeeper was the root of that evil. No, the Dean wanted everyone to think Denby had gone away on a whim. He wanted the books left somewhere, as if they had been taken out that day then hurriedly forgotten. I think he was going to forge a note from Denby, telling everyone he was off on his holidays because of this cancer, resigning his post and so forth. Burn some of his clothes to make it look like he'd cleared off.'

Here Morse stopped. Sergeant Lewis knew better than to interrupt when the Inspector was thinking like this. Lewis began to think himself. The pub's would still be open for another hour, but they weren't far from his house and Mrs Lewis would have the egg and chips on soon. She went out on a Thursday night, to her book club, and the prospect of a ham sandwich for dinner did not impress Sergeant Lewis.

'I think he wanted to be found out.'

Lewis stared at the Inspector thoughtfully. 'So he didn't have to go through with the rest of it, you mean?'

'Maybe. Or perhaps he just couldn't face the deception.'

There was a long pause. The conversation was now over. Lewis was about to suggest that he left when the Inspector spoke again.

'You look like you need another drink Lewis. While you're up you can get me one.'

Resigning himself to a lonely, cold dinner, The tall, bulky figure of Sergeant Lewis made its way back to the bar.


End file.
